


possession

by light



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-23
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-08 09:08:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light/pseuds/light
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is so completely wrong about Sherlock having no interest in him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	possession

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following kinkmeme prompt: "John was born an omega, but he's never let an alpha near him during heat, preferring toys and betas to self-entitled, pretentious alphas. When he gets sent back from Afghanistan and meets Sherlock, an alpha, he expects him to be a complete arse...And he is, but not in any way like other alphas. They move into baker street together and become the best of friends. John is in love with Sherlock, but 'knows' his friend isn't interested (Married to his work and Sherlock had told him he wasn't interested in mating.) John decides that he needs an alpha to try to help him forget about Sherlock and he brings one home. (It can be a stranger or another character.) Sherlock is supposed to be out on a case for a few days but he returns unexpectedly and catches them, (preferably just before any sex happens). John thinks that Sherlock won't care very much beyond the annoyance of having the scent of another alpha stinking up the flat but in fact he's entirely beyond furious. He had been slowly working up to courting John. He throws the interloper out on his backside and proceeds to roughly show John who he belongs to. If he suddenly wants an alpha, it going to be Sherlock and only Sherlock." Unbetaed.
> 
> **eta** \- Wow did not realize that coming back to edit this 4AM porn would push it back to the top of the pile again. My deepest apologies!

John has no interest in bonding.

It was easier in Afghanistan when he was on the pill for his heats and the use of pheromone sterilizer was stringently enforced. There was something about the smell of alphas making other alphas overly aggressive and god knew that there was enough stupid shit happening with the enlisted pulling pranks on each other without throwing biological hierarchies into the mix. It was easier for John to pretend that he wasn’t an omega when the military effectively neutralized any sex drive until they were given field missions. And by the time the sterilizers wore off in the middle of a mission, leaving them as a hugely vicious, hormone-driven pack, the soldiers still retained enough common sense to realize not to fuck around with the only man who for them often stood between life and death.

But then he was shot in the shoulder and invalided back to London, where it was back to alphas approaching him on the tube, purring into his ear exactly how big their knot was and wouldn’t John just love to be breeded by their thick cock, wouldn’t he like to get filled with their seed and wouldn’t their children be lovely? John has learned to smile and remind himself that even though he technically _could_ break the arm that they’ve got slung over his shoulder and even though he technically _could_ pin the stupid alpha to the wall of the train with a knee jammed up against their _thick cock_ and tell them to go fuck themselves--he probably shouldn’t. Low profile and all.

It’s not that he hates alphas. He’s friends with more of them than he can remember, all the men in his unit, a few of the already-bonded physicians at the hospital he used to work with. He just has no interest in the false machismo that they adopt in order to impress him, the way that they try to order him around. He doesn’t trust any of them, and he can’t imagine ceding so much control over to any one of them when he’s lost in the haze of his own heat.

So. John has no interest in bonding.

Or at least he has no interest in bonding until he meets Sherlock Holmes.

~

The first time that John lets himself relieve the pressure of too many cycles on the pill is half a year after moving into 221B. It’s dangerous--he knows--with Sherlock also living in the flat, but he buys an extra latch and quietly installs it the week before he knows it’s going to come. If Sherlock notices, he doesn’t say anything.

He unearths the dildo he had bought when he just returned from Afghanistan, the one with the inflatable knot (he flushes, just looking at it because he doesn’t think he should want it so badly, but it just feels so good and full and John can’t help it) and sets up a fan near the door in a way to keep as much pheromone contained within the room as possible. If he’s going to release the pent up pressure of skipped heats, he doesn’t want Sherlock to be slamming at the door, trying to get in.

Or at least that’s what he thinks.

Because later, when he’s hot, god, so fucking hot, and the sheets are too rough against his skin--and god, he’s forgotten how lightheaded his heats feel, how it’s impossible to think of anything except for the way that he rubs his body against the sheets and tries to keep quiet except--

He moves the dildo in and out of himself slowly--and was he _always_ this wet during a heat?--and bites down on his pillow and for the first time in a long time the dildo, even with its inflatable knot filling him up isn’t enough, he wants the press of another body pushing him down into the mattress he wants, he wants--he wants the scent of alpha mixed in with his sweat, he wants danger and desperation and someone else filling him up instead of this stupid plastic thing, he wants, he wants--

_Sherlock_ his mind supplies, Sherlock with his coat flaring on a chase, adrenaline and teeth when he smiles, his hands in Sherlock’s curls, Sherlock’s teeth against his collarbone as he shoves into John and claims him and oh god--John squeezes his eyes shut and he can imagine it, the way that Sherlock would hold him down and thrust into him, and neither of them would say a thing and John is moaning shakily into the cotton of his pillow and god, it isn’t enough.

Heats don’t last as long without an alpha and John is on the tail end of his cycle by noon the next day. He can’t look Sherlock in the face for a full three days and makes excuses about having to work more at the surgery. 

If Sherlock knows, he doesn’t say anything.

~

John takes the pill every day because it’s incorporated into his morning routine. He downs it with his coffee right before brushing his teeth (or chewing a piece of gum if he’s feeling particularly lazy) so he knows he never misses a day without purposefully doing so.

So it’s strange when he suddenly starts getting flashes of want when he’s out on crime scenes with Sherlock, when they’re doing stupid things like getting chased by gunmen or not waiting for backup to search for serial killers. All it takes is a look at Sherlock’s long throat to make John want to bare his own, the flash of Sherlock’s fingers against the dark of his coat to make John wish that Sherlock would use them to spread him apart.

John hasn’t felt like this since before he started taking the pill, since he was awash in a flood of his own stupid teenage hormones after he crossed over but before he realized he didn’t want to play the role destined to him.

~

Sherlock doesn’t do relationships. Sherlock has shown no interest whatsoever in any omegas.

“Unnatural,” Donovan had pointed out, “Starting to doubt he’s an alpha at all.”

But John’s seen Sherlock’s ID when he borrows Sherlock’s card for the shopping, and it says he’s an alpha. John doesn’t know of any drugs or techniques that suppress the primal part of an alpha’s brain. But if anyone could have control over it, if anyone could be different--Sherlock would be the one.

Sherlock’s brilliant. He operates on a level so far beyond what any of them are capable that John really does believe that Sherlock doesn’t need an omega. And even if he did, there are far more interesting omegas out there than _John_.

~

John skips two heats and decides that he’ll have his third.

This time, he presses himself against the sheets and uses his toys but he can’t bring himself off. Just stays teetering on the edge of an orgasm, rubs his leaking cock all over his sheets with a rapidly increasing frustration before he gets up off the bed and stumbles towards his dresser. He opens one of the drawers and clumsily picks through it, unable to think but instinctively knowing that he wasn’t going to find what he wanted in there. He goes to the closet and yes, there’s his coat--he presses his face into it and his heightened senses can pick out where Sherlock’s touched him: on the elbow, on the shoulder, palm between his shoulders and John takes it in, takes it all in and wants so badly before his body gives in and he comes on top of his nice pair of loafers and he’s so exhausted from the effort that he doesn’t even care.

~

Maybe it’s not actually Sherlock.

Maybe his body just needs an alpha and he’s been in such close proximity to Sherlock for so long that he just _thinks_ that he wants Sherlock.

Maybe it’s a stupid idea but John isn’t sure he can stand much more of this, doesn’t want to fathom the idea of itching to touch Sherlock every day for the rest of his life without ever being able to. But it’s a sign from the universe, surely, when Sherlock tells John that he’s got a case overseas in France for a week--and it happens to line up exactly with John’s cycle.

He has to physically refrain from leaning in and brushing his nose along Sherlock’s neck, scenting him for the last time before he leaves for an entire week. He has to refrain from bunching his fist into the fabric of Sherlock’s clothes, from begging Sherlock not to leave. Jesus, what was wrong with him?

A few months ago, he had met an unbonded alpha down at the pub. His name was Scott, John thinks, and he had left John his phone number. He hadn’t seemed so bad. He was more timid than most of the other alphas John had met and seemed almost apologetic about the fact that he was an alpha.

John hid the napkin in his desk, tucked into a notebook. Maybe he'll give Scott a call.

~

Scott stops at the doorway leading into the flat and looks around before blurting out, “There’s another alpha here.”

“Ah,” John says as he comes up the stairs behind Scott, “That would be my flatmate.”

“You didn’t tell me you already had an alpha,” Scott says, turning to face him, “I don’t want to start anything--”

“He’s not my alpha,” John says, and hates the way that it comes out tight. He forces himself to relax, “He doesn’t really do relationships, that one.”

“Not do relationships?” Scott asks. John starts to unbutton Scott’s shirt. “I don’t understand. How could an alpha live with you and not want to take you?” Scott pushes John up against the wall, eyes darkening. He leans in and presses his nose against John’s neck and his voice drops into a purr, “You smell so good.”

John doesn’t know why his hands feel clammy, why the sweat at the back of his neck feels cold. He knows that he’s on his heat--had felt the familiar rise in temperature this morning and spent half an hour lying in bed slowly rubbing against the sheets and feeling that familiar wetness dampening his briefs, the thrum of lust and hormones singing low in his veins. But now he can’t feel that at all--just the coldness of the wall against his shoulderblades, a sort of buzzing in his head that told him that this was wrong--all wrong.

He closes his eyes as Scott licks against his neck and tries to shake himself out of it. He just needs an alpha to take him and Scott agreed to a condom. He just needs a real living knot in him and the stupid omega in him will be satiated and he can stop thinking about Sherlock, stop thinking about his stupid hands and the way he smiled sometimes and the flicker of the telly on his face and--

John gasps. Yes, there it was, returning--he wants to throw Scott off and bury himself in Sherlock’s bed, wants to rub himself against the sheets until their scents mingled, oh god it would be so good, they would smell so good together, John wants--

“What.”

Scott jumps.

John slumps against the wall and thinks _Sherlock_.

“What are you doing?”

“I thought--” Scott’s voice is pitched high. John can’t even think because he’s wrapped up in Sherlock’s scent, his low voice, if he opens his eyes he can almost imagine--

“Get out.”

\--Sherlock is here.

John opens his eyes. In the daze of imagined sensations, he hadn’t realized that they had become real.

Within moments, Scott’s feeble presence is gone and Sherlock sweeps into the room. John steadies himself against the wall and tries to control his breathing. Sherlock comes to a stop before him and stares at John hard and god, John swears that he could lose himself in Sherlock’s eyes right now, fucking never look away and drown in them and he wouldn’t even fucking care. He lets out a breathy moan and god he can’t control himself, he wants to pitch forward onto Sherlock, beg Sherlock to take him and it’s the fucking heat, he swears, he’s going to hate himself tomorrow.

“What were you doing?” Sherlock demands. John tries to clear his mind, tries to brush away the fog and that’s when he realizes that Sherlock is _furious_.

“I--” he says and doesn’t have the chance to finish because Sherlock has his wrists pinned against the wall above his head and John offers his neck automatically.

“You can’t,” Sherlock says, low into John’s ear, “You can’t with anybody else. Do you understand?”

It’s more vibration than sound against John’s ear and he fucking melts into it. He spreads his legs and Sherlock pushes up against him, until John feels Sherlock’s cock through the fabric of his trousers, pressing against his inner thigh and John wants it, wants it so bad that he moves his hips a little, grinds against it.

Sherlock growls and pushes John’s wrists up higher so that John has to stand on tip-toes, can’t press himself against Sherlock except where Sherlock wants him to. “You’re mine,” he says, and bites down on John’s neck.

It’s not quite an orgasm but it’s a rush, the way that his limbs lock up briefly, the way his eyes slip shut and Sherlock’s mouth against his neck has never felt so right, the press of his teeth and yes this is exactly where everything needs to be in the world, John can’t believe he ever lived without this certainty, the knowledge that he _belonged_ to someone, someone as dangerous and thrilling as Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock licks against his jugular, bites against his jawline and hisses, “You belong to me and nobody else.”

“Yours,” John agrees fervently, gasping. He pushes his hips up against Sherlock and whimpers, “Please.”

Sherlock drags the shirt off of John and starts on his trousers even as he remains fully dressed. He hasn’t even taken off his coat. John wants to see all of Sherlock, wants to press skin against skin and mix their scents, but he can’t even bring himself to care too much right now, not when Sherlock was palming his cock through cotton before sliding his fingers under John’s briefs. John works at Sherlock’s trousers, fingers clumsy and slipping when Sherlock rubs at his entrance.

“Is this for me, John?”

“You,” John says and chokes for a moment when Sherlock slips his fingers in, wrist pushing aside the damp cotton, “Yours all yours, always yours.” He finally fumbles Sherlock’s trousers open and desperately pushes his hands under the waistband of Sherlock’s underwear and yes oh god that was it, god it was so big and John needed it now, please, please, please.

“I’m the only one allowed here,” Sherlock breathes into John’s ear.

“I need it,” John rasps, “Inside me. Right now. Oh god Sherlock.”

Sherlock tears John’s underwear away and John misses it, wants Sherlock’s fingers back, wants Sherlock inside him, wants it more than anything he’s wanted in his life. John turns against the wall, legs spread and feels the blunt head of Sherlock’s cock pressing up against his hole. John has never been so sure of anything in his life, and he pushes back just as Sherlock rams forward.

John presses his forehead against his arm up against the wall, shaking. Sherlock drapes himself against John’s back and the wool of his coat is a strange coarse sensation against his fevered skin, the heat of Sherlock’s palms against his sides, open mouthed kisses against John’s spine shooting straight to his cock and everywhere Sherlock touches him is heavy against his skin. And oh, the pressure of Sherlock inside him. John can’t breathe because it’s good, it’s so good.

And after a moment, Sherlock starts moving, the roll of his hips pulling out and pushing back in and Sherlock’s fingers dig bruises against the skin of his hips and John wants more, wants Sherlock to leave permanent marks because he wants to be _Sherlock’s_ forever if he can help it. Sherlock thrusts into him, pushes him against the wall until his elbows are rubbed raw with the effort of bracing himself and that’s when John can feel it, the way that the pressure intensifies inside him.

Sherlock breathes heavy against the bare skin of his shoulder and soon he can’t move at all--they’re joined completely. John feels like he’s about to burst, feels warmth coating his insides and he wants to sob with how much he’s wanted this all along and it’s Sherlock, it’s really Sherlock pressed along the length of his back, Sherlock who’s smoothing a tongue over the crook of his neck, who’s whispering, “John,” into his ear and shuddering like he’s wanted this too.

John tries to hold on as long as he can, but Sherlock’s moving minutely inside him, every tiny movement pressing up against him and sending a spark up his spine until he can’t hold on any longer and he lets go and the pleasure overtakes him, spilling into Sherlock’s hand.

When he comes back down, Sherlock is holding his slumped form up against the wall with an arm around his chest and a surprisingly soft kiss against his shoulder. They’re still joined and John catches his breath and he can’t really believe it, when he gets to say, “Is this?” and “Are we?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says and kisses the back of his neck and John knows they’ll be bonded before the sun is up.


End file.
